


Clean Slate

by drtempledragon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 06:44:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drtempledragon/pseuds/drtempledragon
Summary: Prequel to the episode Human Nature, where the Doctor adjusts to his amnesia and his human persona John Smith while being medically examined by Nurse Redfern.Originally published on LiveJournal and archived on Teaspoon.





	Clean Slate

***

Mister John Smith was finally resting on his leather sofa in front of a newly stoked fire, when there was a soft rap on the door to his new abode. A feminine voice of gentle demeanour enquired after his name. Gingerly he got up and opened the door, to be greeted by the sight of a pale woman dressed in a grey wool dress covered by a white apron.

“I’m Matron,” she introduced herself plainly. “The Head Master sent me. I understand you were involved in an accident on your way here?”

“Yes,” he murmured, opening the door further and stepping out of the way to allow her entry. He shook his head, “Though I’m having trouble remembering; I woke up in a field not far from the school.” The words continued unabated with his rationale, “Fortunate, really – my carriage was taken, but the cadet presence here must have scared thieves from taking my belongings, too.” He laughed nervously as he noticed Matron standing patiently, with a slightly patronising smile at his bumbling thoughts.

At her open hand gesture, he shuffled to return to his place on the sofa. “Any aches or pains?” she prompted, during which she opened what looked like a portable medical bag that rested on the sofa’s arm.

His first instinct was to say ‘everywhere’, which was true. His skin itched as it contacted with the wool of his clothes; it tingled as air passed over it, including his throat. It made him want to squirm, like a boy on his first day at school in a new uniform. Yet there was another urge, an oppressive one that said to sit still and behave.

Again, Matron waited expectantly. Under her gaze, his mouth worked but no sound emerged. He cleared his throat, “I think I did a fair bit of shouting, or fell funny; my neck and throat feel prickly.”

“Nothing to do with the fire lit on a warm, September evening?” she gently reasoned, pulling out a wooden spatula from her bag.

He looked behind her, as if seeing the fire for the first time. “Well, err, there’s something reassuring about the flickering column of light. Reminds me of home,” he justified with a flush of embarrassment and an exposure of his teeth in a small smile. The smile soon turned into a grimace, as his eyes adjusted to the lamp Matron had just switched on by the hearth. The brightness gave him little warning of her actions, as almost immediately the spatula was holding down his tongue. The suppressed muscle protested, pushing up of its own accord, enhancing the pleasant scratching the wood grain offered. She either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, and the physical sensations subdued as he watched her intent study of his insides. 

Once she had finished her interior examination, she placed her fingers along his jaw and tilted his head to observe his throat. During which he moistened his mouth by running his tongue along his teeth; they felt weird, but it was nothing a cup of tea wouldn’t fix. Yes, the Great British Institution of tea that solved everything.

“Well, there’s no sign of physical trauma here,” she concluded, drawing his thoughts to the present. “Any numbness or tingling?” she added, as she disposed of the spatula.

He tingled all over; John wondered if it was a question of his lucidity, that it was how he was supposed to feel, that she felt like that, too. The tickling sensation was especially notable when their skin had contacted and brushed against each other, like his touch sense was reaching out and trying to compensate for something. Though for what that was would remain dormant, as Matron had fixed her attention to his attire.

He took a moment to take in his now obvious state of dress, complete with muddied trousers. He hadn’t thought to change in the time he had been here. He looked over to his travel case in the doorway; it was still unopened, as if he wasn’t staying. A gentleman should never entertain such soiled attire, yet he didn’t feel embarrassed in front of her; you could trust Doctors and Nurses.

“I seem to be lagging from a lot of travelling,” he admitted, rubbing his temples before shifting his fingers to his nape. It seemed to animate Matron, as her eyes roamed the room.

“Do you know what day it is?” she asked thoughtfully. The question dumbfounded him, and it gave her a knowing smile. She gestured for him to move along the sofa, and she sat behind him. The light and orientation offered her an inspection of his crown. As he had yet to answer her, she prompted, “It’s September 15th 1913.”

“Oh!” it became clear to him now. “A fortnight until the Michaelmas Term begins at my new teaching post,” he announced in the surest sounding voice of the evening, before he was distracted by the meticulous search beneath his dishevelled hair. 

Her lack of findings seemed to bother her. She stood up and came in front of him to access her medical bag. He noticed that she was coming undone; the simple button on the back of her apron was loose. Before he realised, he was fastening it, putting her appearance right. She stilled almost immediately, neither encouraging nor admonishing his behaviour. It was unexpected to her, yet it wasn’t her place to question it. He felt guilty for putting her in such a position.

“I’m sorry,” he confessed, surprised at how easily the words had come and how much he meant it. “I hadn’t meant to cause your virtue injury.” His next words came with a slight shake of his head, “I’m not feeling myself.”

His admissions seemed to surprise her, and she was able to continue her work, which included filling out a medical card. “Well, Mister Smith, I can’t find anything physically wrong. You may simply be overtired and dehydrated. I can have Jenny, our cook, bring you some tea. As you said, you’ve had a long journey.” She closed her bag and held it in front of her, signalling the end of her examinations.

He stood up and smiled his thanks, strangely pleased that she had also thought tea was the answer.

“My advice is to get several good nights’ sleep. The boys can be quite a handful with a new school year, before they are disciplined. No doubt they will bring unfamiliar germs too, if you have travelled far.”

“Yes, quite,” he grinned, in a reserved English way. She returned his smile and bowed her head, which was his cue to escort her to the exit. He bid her goodnight and closed the door gently behind her. Maybe he would find solace in dreams.

***


End file.
